


raised by wolves and voices

by ruffboi



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Found Family, Gen, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Lambert, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, chosen family, i said it wasn't shippy but honestly it's gonna get shippy, inspired by the tv show but taking info from the games and wiki as needed, no beta we die like stregobor fucking should have, this isn't shippy but honestly that may change, you can see some jaskier/lambert if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24532948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffboi/pseuds/ruffboi
Summary: Julian should never have been taken to Kaer Morhen.  He never should've survived the Trials.  He never should've survived the training.  He never should've survived the Path. On his own, he probably never would have.But it's rare to find a wolf that runs and hunts alone, and Julian has his own pack to watch his back, and he watches theirs. Maybe that'll be enough to keep them alive and running, even when the rest of the Continent wants to wipe them out.At the very least they'll make a damn good try.
Relationships: Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel & Lambert & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 160
Kudos: 433





	1. Dandelion

**Author's Note:**

> What, ANOTHER witcher!Jaskier fic? Yuuup. I'm allowed to post the first part because I only have one scene to finish before my next BGSA update. ^_^
> 
> This was very _very_ loosely inspired by a post on tumblr that talked about Jaskier being a wolf school witcher who was shit at everything except surviving. This is not that fic, but there's ghosts of the original post in here.
> 
> Thanks to the Gender Inclusive Drunk Barthroom folks, Dor, and my beloved partners for letting me ramble about this ad nauseam. :)

Julian should never have been taken to Kaer Morhen.

The thing was that his father hadn't expected the witcher he'd hired to _actually_ be able to clear the kikimore nest on his own. He'd offered a large bounty for it; and the large, imposing, bearded man with two swords and a wolf medallion had taken him up on it. Julian had watched, hidden behind a chair, and shivered when the witcher had looked over at his hiding place with intense yellow eyes. He'd met Julian's, and given that at six years old the most truly frightening thing in his world was getting in trouble, Julian had feared the large man would tell his father he was spying.

He didn't, though. Julian wasn't sure why; grown-ups _always_ told when he was breaking rules.

But the Earl de Lettenhove had apparently _expected_ the witcher to be overwhelmed and die, weakening the nest enough that his own men could complete the job without having to pay for the work. And Lettenhove had not done well under Julian's father's rule, and they didn't _have_ the money to pay the witcher when he returned covered in dried kikimore blood and dried witcher blood with tears in his armor almost a week later.

"My pay," the witcher growled from where he stood in the middle of the great hall. He'd interrupted supper, and the Earl had _guests_ , and Julian stared wide-eyed from his seat at the end of the head table at the large man who refused to retire to another room at his father's stammered request.

"We... have half. You'd been gone long enough we thought you dead, witcher, and we used some of the coin to hire more soldiers to try to finish the job," the Earl de Lettenhove lied shakily. 

The witcher snarled. "I smell your _lies_ , and I wouldn't do it again if I were you." He drew his steel sword, and the few guards actually in the room nervously drew their own, making no move to get any closer without a direct order. "My. Pay."

"I..." Julian's father looked around the room frantically, clearly trying to come up with a plan.

His eyes landed on Julian, wide-eyed and largely forgotten in favor of his (better) older siblings, unless he was causing trouble. Julian peered back at him, not understanding the sharp look in his father's eyes and he turned back to the witcher.

"Half your pay, and a boy to take back to be trained." the Earl said. Julian's mother frowned up at her husband, then at Julian, pressing her lips together but saying nothing.

The witcher didn't seem to be _pleased_ by this offer, but took it anyway with a short nod. 

"I'll wait with my horse," he said. "Be quick, or I'll change my mind." And then he strode out again. 

The panicked stillness of the room all but exploded, inasmuch as nobility ever exploded, frantic murmuring rippling through the hall at all tables. The Earl waved a servant over to his side.

"Take Julian and put him in his old travel clothes," he said. "Collect the coin from the steward, and deliver both to the courtyard."

The servant nodded, and came to Julian's chair, catching his wrist and tugging him out of his seat and out of the hall when he didn't stand on his own.

"What's going on?" Julian asked. "Why do I gotta have travel clothes? Why can't I wear the new ones? The old ones got holes in the knee and the boots pinch!"

"It's no matter, you're going on a trip is all," the servant - Julian thought his name was Aron - said with a shaking voice. "But we must go quickly."

Julian was shoved in his old traveling clothes - they still fit, though he was clearly about to grow out of them, and they were worn and mended from the trip the family had taken to Cidaris in the spring for someone's wedding. He'd run his nurse and guard ragged and gotten muddy nearly every day, and there were at least two tears that no one had bothered to repair as they'd nearly been back to Lettenhove.

Aron took him down to the steward and got a coin purse, then - Julian's wrist firmly held again - went out to the courtyard. The witcher was waiting with a large, unfriendly-looking horse, and Aron tossed the purse at the witcher's feet and pushed Julian forward, nearly causing him to trip. 

"Y-your payment, master witcher," Aron said shakily.

The witcher grunted, looking down at Julian and pinning him in place with those yellow eyes. This close, Julian could see they looked like the eyes of the cats in the stables, with a slit down the middle instead of a circle like his own.

"Come on, then, boy," the witcher said, bending over to grab the purse before turning with his horse's reins in his hand and starting to walk out of the courtyard.

Julian stood motionless for a second or two, looked back at the door that was closing behind Aron's quickly-retreating form, and then back at the witcher's back, not sure what he was supposed to _do_. The witcher seemed to sense his hesitation, and turned back to him.

" _Boy_ ," he snapped with a growl in his voice, and Julian scrambled to catch up to him, more afraid of making him angry than being close to him.

"S-sir, um—"

"You'll be coming with me," the witcher said firmly. "You stay close to me or I'll tie a rope around your waist so you can't wander off. You do what I tell you, when I tell you. Understand?"

Julian nodded immediately, then glanced back over his shoulder with a concerned frown.

"Are," he started, then fluttered his fingers in the air and chewed his lip, unsure if he was allowed to ask questions.

"Ask while you walk, boy," the witcher said, and started walking again. Julian started walking, too, trotting to keep up with the witcher's long stride.

"Are you my new father?" he asked, uncertain. "Are we going to _your_ manor?"

"Neither," the witcher said, though he sighed, and Julian thought maybe he looked a little sad. "No one will be your father anymore after this. And I'm taking you back to the witcher keep in the north. You'll be trained as a witcher there."

"Oh," Julian said softly. He didn't understand, not really, he wasn't sure why this stranger was taking him away from his family, why he didn't get to _have_ a family anymore, why he was going to be made a witcher when he was just a little boy who did poorly at his lessons.

He wanted to cry, even though his father said that men don't cry and he shouldn't either, but he couldn't do that _and_ keep up with the witcher and his horse, and he didn't want the witcher to tie a rope around him like he'd been a poorly-trained puppy.

Maybe things would start making sense tomorrow.

* * *

Julian was a really bad witcher trainee.

That's what the other boys said, anyway, for the first couple of years of Julian's training in Kaer Morhen, when they pushed him around behind the instructors' backs. He was too soft. He cried too much. He didn't stop talking or singing all day and everyone hated it.

He was going to die in the trials in a few years, and everyone would be relieved.

Part of Julian almost wanted it to happen. He was eight, he still missed his home— his— ...well, he still missed Lettenhove, despite everything. He hated being surrounded by these men who told him he had to run and fight and train, when he wanted to read and sing and draw. He hated the cruel things the boys said to him, and the things he heard the instructors say between themselves sometimes.

"He never should've been brought here," Julian heard the weaponsmaster say to the witcher who trained them with basic sword drills before the Trials. He was sitting at a table with his cohort eating before afternoon chores and training, and the witchers weren't trying to be too quiet, assuming little children wouldn't listen to their boring conversations.

Most children, in their defense, probably wouldn't.

Julian was not most children. And Julian had always had very sharp ears.

"Probably not," his instructor, Master Iolus said, "but he's here now, and there's nothing else to do with him."

"I'm still not putting him through the Trials early," the weaponsmaster growled. Julian had never met him, but despite the growl, he thought the old witcher sounded kind. Maybe not friendly, but like the witcher who brought him here in the first place: prickly and taciturn, with a good heart and a lot of compassion.

(Julian was so proud of the word "taciturn". He'd learned it the week before from a couple of the older boys, almost ready to leave on the Path but not _quite_ there yet. The dark-haired one had been teasing the white-haired one about his "taciturn nature", and Julian had asked if that was a bad word and what it meant. They both had looked down on him with similar startled expressions and eyes of amber and gold, and just as he started to think he'd broken one of the rules that were all over Kaer Morhen but that no one ever told you, his fingers starting to flutter in the air to calm himself down, the dark-haired one had looked up at the other and grinned suddenly. 

"It just means someone who is reserved, and doesn't talk a lot," he'd said, dropping a hand to Julian's head and ruffling his hair. "Which Geralt here really doesn't if he can help it."

"Fuck off, Eskel," the other, Geralt, had grumbled.

" _That_ one _is_ a bad word," Julian had declared knowingly, startling another laugh out of both of them - loud from Eskel and a soft amused huff from Geralt.

"Yeah, sure is, pipsqueak," Eskel says. "Don't tell your minders we're teaching you bad words or anything, yeah?"

Julian had nodded enthusiastically and they'd wandered off, apparently forgetting him as they continued their conversation. He thought they were probably the nicest witcher trainees in the whole keep.)

"We all know he won't survive the Trials," Master Iolus was still telling the weaponsmaster. "What point is there in letting him be miserable and bullied for another two years before his cohort is progressed?"

"Because we _don't_ know fuck all, Iolus," the weaponsmaster snapped. "Just because he seems soft and unsuited for all this doesn't mean shit for surviving the Grasses and you damn well know it. Look at _Geralt_ , for fuck's sake."

Julian perked up a bit, hearing the name of one of the older boys from the week before, at the idea that maybe the strong-looking, _taciturn_ witcher trainee had been a little like him, and was still strong, and had survived the Trials. None of the boys in his cohort or the one above his knew what the Trials _were_ , but they knew that most boys from the cohorts that had done them didn't actually survive. Julian tries not to think about it too much.

"Geralt was _quiet_ , not _soft_ ," Master Iolus said with a disdainful snort. "But fine, if you won't approve it, _you_ can carry the guilt of letting the brat suffer longer than he needed to."

Julian turned his head just a little bit to frown at Master Iolus's back as he walked out of the hall, a hot, bubbling feeling in his chest and an angry flush making his cheeks and ears burn. Master Iolus thought he would die, too, just like the other boys, probably thought _everything_ the other boys taunted him with, and had tried to move Julian up a cohort so he wouldn't have to _deal_ with him. That hadn't been what he said, but Julian knows none of his instructors like him. He shouldn't have to die sooner just because of _that_.

Someone cleared their throat behind him, and Julian whipped around so fast he nearly fell off the bench - at least at the end of the table, there wasn't anyone he could accidentally knock into. He looked up to find the weaponsmaster standing there, looking down at him critically. Julian was torn between scowling at him and wanting to hug him for sticking up for him to Master Iolus.

The weaponsmaster simply stared at him, searching his face for something Julian didn't know how to show him, didn't know if he even _had_.

"You might surprise them yet," the old witcher grunted at last, and clapped Julian hard on the shoulder. "Be seeing you, pup."

Julian hid up in an isolated corner of the upper courtyard, amongst bunches of wild dandelions that had somehow eked out an existence in the high, cold mountains where Kaer Morhen was. He didn't want to go to sword lessons after hearing what Master Iolus said about him, what he _thought_ about him, and he needed to decide what to do.

Because Julian _was_ miserable, was the thing. He was eight and he wanted to have normal lessons and parents and a _home_ , not just a bunk in the dormitory surrounded by boys who teased him for still crying at night sometimes, even after two years. And if he was going to die anyway maybe it would be easier if he did this year, and not two or three more years from now. He could probably go to the weaponsmaster, who he guessed was a little in charge of who got to do the Trials, or when they did, and beg and beg to be let to do it this year, with the cohort above his who were all 10 and 11 and 12.

But... 

But if he did, and he didn't die, then he'd have to train with the boys who were a lot bigger than him, who'd paid better attention in their training, and who could all beat him easily. And if he _didn't_ , then he just proved everybody right.

And the weaponsmaster thought he could surprise them.

Julian sat in a patch of dandelions, as abandoned and isolated within the walls of Kaer Morhen as he was, but still putting down roots and refusing to be killed against all odds, and he decided that he'd be like that, too.

* * *

Nobody in their cohort liked Lambert.

They brought him a few weeks after Julian made a decision in the dandelion patch. He shouted and screamed and had bitten two full-grown witchers and cussed like he was a grown up (a really rude one), not like an 8-year-old. He snarled at the other boys and tried to kick the door open after they'd been put in the dormitories for the night with the door locked so he couldn't get out and get in trouble, like they did with a lot of the new boys, and he basically disrupted everything for half a week until their minders had given up and put him in a private room, where he'd at least be less likely to disturb people. 

Julian thought he was the _best_.

The second night after they moved Lambert to a different room down the hall, Julian waited until he was pretty sure everyone was asleep and then snuck out of the dormitory and down the hall. He wasn't _sure_ which room was Lambert's, so he moved quietly - one of the few things they trained at that he _was_ good at - and listened at each door. He thought maybe they would've locked him in, or maybe he'd be yelling or muttering or something, and he'd be able to tell which room belonged to the new boy.

He'd been so angry, every time Julian saw him, that it startled him when he put his ear to a door and heard crying inside. He would've thought Lambert was too angry to cry, but this wasn't one of the older boys, or one of the witchers, because they _never_ cried. It _had_ to be Lambert, it just had to.

He was expecting the door to be locked, but tried it anyway, and almost jumped back when it actually opened under his hand. But this was perfect. He wanted to talk to Lambert anyway, introduce himself, tell him that even if the other boys didn't like him, Julian thought he was fierce and brave, and if they both cried at night sometimes, maybe that would be okay too.

He peeked into the small room with the small bed and the small figure curled in the bed glowering at the door like he was going to bite whoever came through it.

"Um," Julian said, his voice a small whisper so he wouldn't wake any of the witchers. "You're Lambert, right?"

"Fuck off!" the other boy snapped back, not whispering, but still relatively quiet. He didn't want any witchers coming in, either.

"I'm Julian," Julian continued, pretending like Lambert hadn't said anything. "Um... can I come in?"

Lambert didn't say anything, but the fact that he didn't use any bad words made Julian feel brave, so he slipped into the mostly-dark room and carefully closed the door behind him, then sat cross-legged on the end of the bed. Lambert glowered at him.

"What the hell do you want?" he asked after a moment.

"Well," Julian said slowly. "I kind of thought maybe, since none of the other boys like you much, and none of the other boys like _me_ much, and neither of us want to be here... maybe we could be friends?"

"I don't need any fucking stupid _friends_ ," Lambert snapped. "'Specially not any fucking stupid _witcher_ friends."

Julian's heart sank a little, and he tried, he really really tried, not to let tears well up in his eyes, but he's soft and weak and probably going to die in a few years, and it's a disappointment that the one person he thought maybe might have wanted to know someone else felt angry and betrayed and hurting was here too.

"Oh," he whispered, balling his hands in his lap. _Don't cry, dummy, don't cry, don't cry_. "Okay, then."

"Are... are you fucking _crying_ ?" Lambert asked, but his voice had gone a little uncertain under the attempt at a sneer that he couldn't quite pull off, and Julian's shoulders went up around his ears. "You _are_ ," Lambert continued insistently. "Well... well piss off with that, men don't _cry_."

" _You_ piss off," Julian snapped back, unable to keep his voice from wobbling and the tears from spilling over. "Maybe grown-ups don't, but we're not grown-ups and anyway _you_ were crying before I came in, I _heard_ you."

"...fuck you," Lambert said, but it was quieter, and Julian thought he understood. Julian kept his angry hurt self tucked away inside, tried not to let anyone see, even if it meant sometimes they saw that he was sad, because if he got angry at home, or too upset, or loud, he'd get caned, and once he got to Kaer Morhen he figured witchers were meaner than his father, and he was pretty sure he was right. Lambert threw his angry hurt self at people and tried to hurt them back so they wouldn't _ever_ see that he was sad. Maybe his father caned him for that, instead of for yelling.

"Only... only everybody cries some when they first get here," Julian said cautiously after a moment. "But I've been here two years and I still cry sometimes, too, and they make fun of me. But I just don't wanna be here, is all. I want... I don't want to go back where they got me from, but I don't wanna be _here_. I don't wanna be a witcher."

"Me either," Lambert said quietly. "I really don't wanna be."

"So I thought maybe you'd be my friend," Julian continued, a little hope starting to seep back into him as he scrubbed at his eyes, trying to get rid of all the tears. "Since no one likes us and we don't wanna be here."

In the dim moonlight through the narrow window, Julian could tell Lambert looked a little dubious, but finally he shrugged.

"I guess. If you cry so easy, I bet you need someone to keep you safe, anyway." It sounded like a declaration, something from the dramatic, heroic songs and stories Julian had loved so much before he'd been given to the witchers. Not in words, but in _intent_.

"I'm not real good at fighting," Julian admitted. "I'm tryin' to be but. But I _hate_ the training masters," he spat the words with a rage he hadn't let himself show before. It was stronger than anything a little boy in Lettenhove could've felt, being so young, but he'd never ever let it show, not really. It just made people want to hurt him more.

But Lambert was going to protect him, so he could be a little mad, maybe.

"They're probably huge pricks," Lambert agreed easily. "Why d' _you_ hate 'em?"

"They think I'm gonna die when we do the Trials," Julian muttered. "Just like everybody. They think I'm useless and stupid and I wanna be good at fighting but I don't want _them_ knowing if I am. 'Cause _fuck_ them."

He'd _thought_ curses and bad words so many times, and it wasn't like the witchers or older trainees seemed to care if the little ones used them, but he'd never really... said any out loud before. But Lambert did first. So it was okay if he did, now, too. And it felt really really good, because it made him sound almost as angry as he felt inside.

Lambert went very still for a moment, and Julian thought maybe he'd done something wrong, but then the other boy just whispered, "People _die_ doing them?"

Oh. Julian actually felt even madder at whoever brought Lambert to the Keep. His first witcher, the one he'd been paid to, had told him a lot on their way to Kaer Morhen. He'd told him that he'd train with boys close to his age for a few years, and when he was ten or so, he would undergo the Trials, and that a lot of the boys who did died, and he might be one of them. It was scary, and he still had nightmares about it sometimes, but at least he _knew_. 

Lambert didn't even _know_.

"Yeah," Julian said, and he scooted up to the head of the bed where Lambert was sitting, settling in next to the other boy with their hips and shoulders pressed together. Lambert stiffened briefly; Julian tensed, afraid Lambert might hit him or shove him or lash out some other way. But after a few seconds, Lambert relaxed, and Julian did too, both of them pressed together in a tiny corner of the bed, against the wall, whispering about things most 8-year-old boys didn't have to think about.

"In a couple years, probably," Julian continued. "It's... well, I don't know what they do. The bigger boys, who did it but aren't witchers yet, they call it getting grassed? But it's how witchers get so strong and fast, and how they heal so quick, and why their eyes are yellow and look like cats." He felt Lambert shiver next to him, and he leaned in a little more. 

"They do something and make you a mutant," Julian continued, not that he knew exactly what that meant to be honest, "and a lot of people die. A couple years ago, right after I got here, they did six boys and nobody made it." Julian shivered himself, then, remembering the six pyres and how no one talked about the older boys anymore. 

Lambert hesitated, then wrapped his arm around Julian's shoulders. It was the closest thing to a hug Julian could remember getting since he was so very little, back in Lettenhove. Maybe from his nurse.

"Well, we're not gonna fuckin die," Lambert whispered, intense and determined and angry, so very angry. "Me and you. We'll train real hard, after lessons, so you don't have to let those pricks see you're getting fucking _good_ , and we'll get grassed and we'll be the best damn witchers they ever saw, but we won't ever come back once they let us out. Not fucking _ever_."

"Not fucking _ever_ ," Julian echoed softly, Lambert's hand gripping his arm so tight he thought it might bruise, even as he tried to be comforting, but Julian thought that maybe it was okay, if they hurt each other a little sometimes, if they were trying to be good friends.

He opened his mouth to say something else and instead yawned widely. It was the middle of the night, and he'd had to run the walls for not listening while they trained with daggers that afternoon. 

"Lambert?" he asked, his voice starting to get wobbly not from tears but from exhaustion. 

"What?" Lambert asked, a little too sharp, but still holding him so, so tight.

"Can I stay here?" he asked, a little embarrassed, but not enough not to ask. "In case I hafta cry again?"

"Yeah," Lambert says. "I won't let those pricks make fun of you for it, neither. Nobody should wanna be in this fucking place."

"Yeah," Julian agreed sleepily, and pulled out of Lambert's painful half-hug so he could snuggle under the blankets and curl up in a ball. Lambert did too, after a second or two, their backs pressed against each other.

And if a certain silver-haired almost-witcher was sent to go find Julian and wake Lambert, and found the two of them tangled up in each other looking quiet and peaceful and calm in a way that was so alien to Kaer Morhen, and left them to sleep for an extra ten minutes before pounding hard on the door with a shout of, " _Breakfast_!", then that was no one's business but his own.

* * *

Julian had thought they were ready for the Trials. He and Lambert had spent three years training and pushing themselves (even if Julian pretended he didn't, around the instructors), and they had done everything they could think of to make sure they were _strong_ and _brave_ and _ready_. When they got grassed, it'd be easy as pie.

Except they weren't ready at all. Even Julian's impressive imagination couldn't have predicted how much it would _hurt_ , with the potions in him, how sick it would make him feel. How he couldn't think, or breathe, or move; just cry and cry and vomit and scream until he couldn't hear his voice anymore, and listen to the other boys around him do the same.

He thought, eventually, a tiny fleeting spark of tinder that barely lit and was quickly snuffed, that he was going to die after all.

Except.

He didn't really _notice_ the other small figure shakily climbing into his cot as he shivered, burning with fever and still occasionally convulsing weakly. Noticing would mean he was conscious and coherent enough to be aware of his surroundings. But looking back later, dreaming about it later, he could faintly recall it, the feeling of arms around him and a trembling figure his size pressing against him despite the sweat and bodily fluids he was coated with.

"We're not gonna fucking die," Lambert's familiar voice, raspy and barely-there, whispered in his ear with none of the anger or determination usually imbued in that statement. "You _promised_ , Jules. Don't be a prick. You _promised_."

It was all he could even half-hear before everything became pain and nausea and rough attempts at screaming again, and then everything stopped being anything, and Julian couldn't think enough to wish he'd been better and wasn't leaving Lambert behind, but there was a pain in his chest that had nothing to do with the Trials and everything to do with the too-tight grip Lambert had on him as he passed out, and that was the end of everything.

But then.

Then.

Then he woke up.

He ached, everything hurt, even the air on his skin, the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, the tiny bit of light that filtered through his eyelids. He smelled like shit, like _worse_ than shit. And the pressure of an arm over his chest and a recurring puff of warm air on his neck was excruciating.

But he didn't move, because he knew, even with his eyes closed, that it was Lambert. They didn't fucking die. He showed all of them, every single _fucking_ one of them out there, that he was _not_ as much of a failure as they thought he was. That he wasn't useless, or weak. And neither was Lambert.

Julian let out a relieved sigh and, despite the fact that he was covered in filth and moving and touching things hurt like being cut open, snuggled closer to Lambert, pressing their foreheads together.

The weaponsmaster found them like that a few hours later, sleeping off their exhaustion and tangled together for comfort, and a tiny, partitioned-off part of the old witcher's heart flooded with relief to see both of them breathing evenly.

* * *

They were the only ones of their cohort of eleven who had survived, and Julian barely did.

Nearly two days had passed, apparently, between when Lambert woke up and Julian's fever broke. Another half day before he woke up properly. As soon as Lambert could move, he'd crawled from his cot to Julian's, and when Master Iolus had tried to remove him so he could bathe and then be taken to recover in his new quarters, Lambert had bitten him.

Apparently being bitten by a newly-grassed baby witcher was a lot more painful than being bitten by an angry human child. Lambert's newly sharper teeth had drawn blood, which the boy was _immensely_ proud of. (Julian was too, honestly.) Master Iolus had, according to Lambert, almost looked impressed, and let him stay until Julian woke or died. All the grown witchers who came through clearly expected the latter, given Julian's condition and perceived weakness and the time that had passed.

But they hadn't accounted for stubborn, angry, _loyal_ Julian being delirious and dying and yet _still_ refusing to break a promise to his very best friend.

Under the auspices of making junior witchers getting ready to leave for the Path do the dirty work, they found the only two adults in the keep who both Julian _and_ Lambert would put up with, and sent Eskel and Geralt to take the younger boys to bathe and then to their new rooms.

Lambert, naturally, was surly and combative, especially when Eskel gave up trying to offer to help him walk, rolled his eyes, and slung the younger pup over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. 

"Put me _down_ , you prick!" Lambert spat and hissed, almost cat-like, though in a quieter voice than he usually employed in times like this, sensitive to the volume of his own voice and, judging by the glances he kept shooting at Julian, all-too-aware of how sensitive his friend would be as well.

But for all his protestations, and as much as he squirmed to the extent he could manage, he didn't once try to _bite_ Eskel.

Julian got treated a little more gently, probably in no small part due to the fact that he wasn't kicking up a fuss, but also because he knew he couldn't walk yet. Geralt saved him the embarrassment of being carried like a baby or a bride by perching the still-small-for-his-age baby witcher on his hip like a toddler. It wasn't _much_ better, but it was something.

Geralt took a good long look at him before following Eskel and Lambert, an unreadable (to Julian, at least) expression flickering across his face as he met Julian's eyes.

"It's too bad," Geralt mused as he looked away and started walking after Eskel and Lambert, barely ahead of them so that Lambert wouldn't protest that he and Julian had been separated. "Your eyes were a real pretty blue. Like cornflowers or forget-me-nots."

Julian was eleven, and he'd been in Kaer Morhen almost half his short life, and he'd never really gotten a chance to learn much about poetry, but he liked the thought of that. That his eyes had been flowers.

"You like pretty things, too?" he asked, his voice still scratchy from screaming himself hoarse. "Nobody here seems to care about pretty things except me." A pause, then he added, "And Lambert. But you can't tell that I told, or tease him about it."

"I won't," Geralt promised with a small smile. "Yeah, I guess I like pretty things. Things that make me smile. And _you_ make me smile, pipsqueak, even if you're a pain in the ass."

Julian smiled smugly, and rested his head on Geralt's shoulder. "Sure fucking am," he declared, though it came out a little muzzier than intended. He must have still been tired, if being carried and laying his head down slightly had him so sleepy again.

Geralt chuckled, his deep voice almost rumbling like a rock slide. "Don't doze off yet, you little shit," he said firmly, jostling Julian a little on his hip. "Gotta get scrubbed down, burn your clothes. Then you can sleep."

Julian sighed deeply and dramatically, like this was the worst trial he'd ever faced, though it was somewhat ruined by an unintentional yawn.

" _Fine_ ," he said wearily. "But you're a buttface 'cause I just wanna take a nap."

"Duly noted," Geralt acknowledged, stepping into the bathhouse.

The bath was _nice_. Geralt and Eskel helped them get undressed and scrubbed them down, getting all the filth off of them. It was a little embarrassing, if Julian was being honest, and he could tell Lambert was thinking the same thing, but the thought of having to do it himself was painful and exhausting and made him want to cry. It still _hurt_ , because all his skin felt like it was still too sensitive, but it also felt good to be clean. Lambert actually fell asleep toward the end, tipping forward onto Eskel's shoulder, and Julian caught the older witcher shooting an amused look at Geralt while he finished drying Lambert off. Then they were wrapped up in the soft linen they'd been dried with and scooped up to be taken back upstairs.

Julian decided he'd forgive Geralt for carrying him like a baby because he smelled nice where Julian's head was tucked into Geralt's neck, and because he was too tired to keep his head upright anymore.

Until they got back to the hallway the grassed boys' rooms were on, and Eskel and Geralt tried to go into two different rooms.

" _No_!" Julian protested, loud enough it made him wince immediately, his own voice making his ears ring painfully, and Lambert stirred in Eskel's arms. "No," Julian repeated, quieter, unable to put words to his protest. He didn't want to be alone. He didn't want to be apart from Lambert. He didn't want Lambert to wake up alone and worry something had happened to Julian and not know where Julian was.

He didn't want anyone to take Lambert away from him.

Eskel pursed his lips as he met Julian's eyes, then glanced up at Geralt. Something soft flickered in the witcher's face, and Julian thought suddenly that maybe, maybe Eskel and Geralt were so close because they'd been like this when they were little.

Maybe they'd understand.

Geralt's chest vibrated as he grumbled something, not really words, but an emotion, and Eskel grinned and shrugged, a whole conversation happening with no words, and Julian wondered if he and Lambert would be able to do that one day. They probably _wouldn't_ , because both of them talked more than Geralt and Eskel usually did, but maybe they _could_.

Geralt huffed softly and walked toward Eskel and the door he'd been opening, following him into Lambert's room. 

The two boys were made to sit upright long enough for Geralt and Eskel to maneuver them into the clean clothes in Lambert's dresser, even if Julian didn't quite fit into them properly, and then they were...

Well.

Witchers don't get tucked in. Witchers don't tuck other people in.

But maybe Geralt and Eskel helped maneuver both Julian and Lambert into the bed and under the covers. And maybe after they both were laid down, and Lambert had instinctively reached out, already mostly asleep, to clutch at Julian and Julian had snuggled into the bigger boy, Eskel pulled the blankets over them both and tucked the edges down so they'd be harder to kick off accidentally. And maybe after Eskel stepped away, Geralt paused and put a hand on Julian's head for a moment, like Julian remembered his nurse doing once when he was sick.

"'M a dandelion," Julian murmured, and he heard Eskel chuckle, and smelled a soft, greenish smell coming from... Geralt, maybe?

"How come you're a dandelion?" Eskel asked in a whisper, and Julian couldn't understand how he could whisper from across the room and be so loud, but that wasn't so important.

"Because I'm a stubborn fucker," he breathed out in reply, and he heard Eskel's stifled laugh. 

"Yeah," Eskel agreed. "You sure fuckin are, 'squeaks." 

Then he was gone, and Geralt's hand was still on his head, and that soft green smell, like new grass in the spring, had gotten stronger. 

"Get some rest, Dandelion," Geralt rumbled, so low it vibrated in Julian's chest even this far away. His large hand ruffled Julian's hair, then paused to ruffle Lambert's as well, and Julian pressed his face into Lambert's chest and smelled soap and cotton and something he couldn't quite identify that _felt_ like Lambert. It was comforting, because it was proof they'd both survived.

Julian was asleep by the time Geralt closed the door.


	2. Pup

Julian remained a very shitty witcher trainee.

But at least, now that he'd been grassed and survived, and had Lambert at his back, he was doing it _intentionally_.

He read history books during alchemy classes and ignored the instructor trying to tell him how not to kill himself. He wrote poetry during their monster biology classes despite the class being designed to teach him how to both kill and _survive_ the creatures he'd meet on the Path. He let his horse have its own head and dug his heels into its ribs at random during horsemanship, refusing to perform well in the saddle (though he always took care to put the tack on correctly, and brush the training horse he'd been given down well). They even had lessons at caring for and mending their gear - swords, armor, packs, and all - and he paid little attention, embroidered flowers in cloth instead of mending tears or holes, and made himself a nuisance asking for brightly colored thread to make the embroidery "more authentic".

The only class he felt bad skiving off in was swordsmanship, and that was because they were taught by the weaponsmaster, Master Vesemir. Julian never forgot that moment in the great hall when Vesemir had expressed, quietly, that thought that maybe Julian could surprise the other cohort instructors. And he had proved Vesemir's thought _right_. He wanted Vesemir to be proud of him. 

But he didn't _want_ to fight, and he didn't _want_ to be a witcher, and he didn't want any of the other instructors to think he gave a shit, so he forced himself to drop his sword and do the wrong footwork and be beaten nearly immediately in sparring again and again.

He made up for all of this in his free time. Julian probably slept the least of any witcher trainee in the whole of Kaer Morhen. in his free time he studied the alchemy books that taught about the potions. He read the bestiaries and the journals kept by recent witchers to see what they'd witnessed out in the world. He practiced his mending by tearing his own clothes and repairing or patching them, practiced on the battered leather armor left for scrap to make sure he could handle repairing armor.

He and Lambert went up to a secluded corner of the keep, near a patch of dandelions that grew larger every year, to practice swordplay in their free time, and it was enough, between watching during training, doing a minimum of what he could get away with, and pretending he was shittier at it than he was.

Vesemir was, as far as Julian could tell, the _only_ instructor who'd caught on to him. He was glad, in a way, because then at least Vesemir knew he was doing it on purpose, and wasn't just a waste of space and training, the way he knew everyone else thought he was.

It was exhausting, because he was doing essentially twice the work of anyone else, even Lambert.

"I can't fuck with lessons," Lambert told him when they were declared ready to join the older grassed boys in training. "I can't let them think I'm weak, not even a little."

"How come?" Julian asked, willing to accept it regardless, but curious nonetheless. 

"'Cause I can't be weak," Lambert said firmly, and Julian saw it again, the difference between the way they both hid parts of themselves. That made sense. "And 'cause if I'm not the best then nobody'll fuck off if I try to protect _you_."

"You don't have to," Julian said. "It won't be so bad anymore, probably, since I made it through the Grasses."

"you're a fucking dumbass, Jules," Lambert said frankly. "It'll be fuckin' _worse_ , 'cause 'better' boys died instead of you. I gotta keep you safe. That's my job. _Your_ job is to fuck with 'em so they don't know what hit 'em when you prove you're just as good as them and then fuck off forever."

Julian was pretty sure he'd never loved someone as much in his eleven years of life as he loved Lambert right then. Between the two of them, they could get well-trained and confident and then tell the elder witchers to go _fuck_ themselves when they were sent out on the Path, and the witchers would know for _sure_ what they were losing.

But until then, Julian had to work hard, harder than anyone, and make it look like he wasn't working at all. He had to dodge irritated and exasperated demands from his instructors, weary questions and knowing looks from Master Vesemir. 

There were three things and only three things that he didn't have to dodge. The first, and most important because it meant he could focus his efforts on actually secretly _learning_ things, were the other trainees, who were inclined to give him a hard time. Lambert took his self-assigned role as Julian's protector very seriously, and even at eleven and twelve put the fear of the gods and himself into anybody who tried to start shit.

The other two things Julian didn't have to dodge were Eskel and Geralt. They were nearly full witchers when he was grassed, set to go on the Path the next spring when the passes cleared, but they spent their remaining time in Kaer Morhen training, preparing, and hassling Julian and Lambert within an inch of their patience and being hassled right back. If Julian had anything like a family, he thought it would be made of the four of them, roughhousing and taking the piss out of each other. He knew he wasn't as good at that part - not quite foul-mouthed enough to get by on profanity alone, and a good decade younger than the older witchers. But it didn't matter, because he always tried, and Eskel always grinned, sometimes tugged him into a headlock.

It wasn't as much as he wanted; he was already doing twice the work once he and Lambert were on their feet that summer, and Geralt and Eskel couldn't be _too_ obvious about their favoritism lest the witchers get chewed out by the instructors and the trainees get even more hated by their peers. But it was enough, sometimes, especially when he'd essentially taken up living in Lambert's room and Vesemir hadn't made any move to separate them.

(He couldn't know how hard the old witcher had fought for them to have that, these two boys who neither of them should've come to Kaer Morhen, neither of whom should've survived the trials, neither of whom should be witchers. He knew the only way they'd make it onto the Path in one piece was to have each other as best as they could. But Julian didn't know that. Julian just knew that Vesemir knew and said nothing.)

Julian ached, when (his brothers) the two witchers left, knew that even if they survived they wouldn't be coming back to the keep for a few _years_ , the junior witchers tasked with taking care of the Path over the winters to acclimate and give older witchers a chance to come back to Kaer Morhen and rest, but he didn't let himself cry. Not even after he and Lambert finally collapsed into bed, exhausted and maudlin.

"You gonna cry about it?" Lambert asked, and anyone but Julian might've gotten defensive. Julian knew better. Lambert just wanted to know if he was okay.

"Nope," Julian said, setting his jaw. "Gotta learn how to not cry even if I want to."

"Alright," Lambert accepted with a shrug.

And if maybe they clung to each other a little closer and a little tighter when they fell asleep, well, sometimes a witcher just needed to hold on to someone for no reason at all.

* * *

By the time they were sixteen, Julian was probably better at potions _and_ signs than anyone else under eighteen in the keep, and could give Lambert a run for his money on best swordsman, and only Lambert and Vesemir knew it. His embroidery skills had flourished and his shirts always had flowers running along the hems and the neckline, he hadn't slept more than four hours a night since he was twelve, and he was pretty sure he'd managed the near-impossible feat of giving multiple grown witchers ulcers.

The downside to this was that he'd started hearing talk that if he didn't start giving a shit and improving, the elders of Kaer Morhen wouldn't _let_ him leave on the Path, just force him to be stuck here putting up with their judgement and their bullshit, _without_ Lambert there to get between him and anyone who wanted to try shit.

Julian already still had to survive the punishments he got for not behaving. He can't imagine how much worse it would be if angry witchers didn't have a reason to _not_ thrash him within an inch of his life without anyone there to help him. 

But at the same time, he wasn't willing to just... start showing his skills suddenly, because then they'd expect more of him, and he didn't want them expecting fuck all. And he didn't think he could fake improvement reliably or believably, not to witchers.

"I might just have to make a run for it," Julian whispered to Lambert one night after he'd finally crawled into bed, their limbs tangled familiarly around each other. "Like we tried after we got grassed. I _can't_ be stuck here."

"You fucking _won't_ be, Jules," Lambert whispered back fiercely. "You just haul ass when I leave, no fucking way they're sparing any of their dicks to track down some piss-ass failure of a witcher."

"They fucking _might_ if they don't want me screwing the reputation of witchers everywhere," Julian hissed.

Lambert frowned in the darkness that didn't impede either of them from seeing each other clearly. He huffed after a moment, irritated, then punched Julian in the arm before pulling him into a too-tight hug.

"Fuck you," he muttered. "No cunt worth shit would believe you were a witcher anyway."

"I know," Julian assured him. "But we need a better plan." 

That was for tomorrow, though. Tonight was for warmth and tangled limbs and tangled blankets and (eventually) sleep.

They tried to come up with a better plan for almost two weeks while the snows melted and the wintering witchers started back out on the Path. There were a lot, some better than others, and none of them very good, because they all relied on Julian being able to survive anywhere from months to years on his own, in hiding, without any coin or - usually - armor or weapons. They needed a better plan, and they were failing at coming up with one.

As it turned out, though, they didn't _need_ a better plan, because Vesemir had come up with one for them, as they began to discover on the first really nice day of spring when they were spending a bit of their minuscule amount of free time out in the courtyard, Lambert doing some necessary mending and Julian embroidering one of his newer shirts. There was the clatter of a witcher _arriving_ at Kaer Morhen, which was uncommon this time of year, and Julian looked up from the little buttercups he was stitching onto the collar, craning his neck to see who it was. 

Julian's face _lit_ up, and he whooped loudly. "GERALT!" He shouted, waving wildly, and Lambert's head snapped up, a sharp grin stretching across his face as he too saw their older friend dismount from his horse. Lambert didn't wave - Julian was doing that enough for both of them.

Geralt looked dirty, and tired, and older, and there was a pinkish healing scar along one side of his jaw, but his lips still quirked up in a faint smile at the sight of the two teenagers perched on the edge of the upper courtyard, and he trudged towards them with one of his saddlebags slung over his shoulder.

"I think you missed the memo, asshole," Lambert drawled as Geralt reached them, still working on his mending. "You're supposed to come at the _beginning_ of winter, not the end."

"Lambert," Geralt rumbled, and Julian could swear his voice was somehow even lower than it had been before he left. "You somehow became more of a prick than you were before."

Lambert flipped Geralt off, but couldn't stop himself from grinning wider when Geralt ruffled his hair, even if he swatted the hand off with an overly-dramatic squawk of protest.

 _Julian_ didn't protest the hair ruffle that came next on his head, just smiled - not as widely as he really felt, but much more sincerely than he probably should've in public - through the hair that was now in his eyes, up at one of his two second-favorite people in the world. 

"Still causing trouble for the instructors, Dandelion?" Geralt asked with a faint hint of wry amusement in his voice.

"Would you believe me if I tried to say no?" Julian asked.

"Hmm," Geralt answered. "No."

"Ah, good, there you are, Geralt," Vesemir called from the main doorway of the keep. "Let's get those supplies sorted so you can take a rest."

Geralt patted Julian's head once more and turned on his heel to quickly follow Vesemir into the keep.

"Wonder what that was about," Lambert murmured once Geralt was inside, barely loud enough for even Julian to hear.

"Vesemir called him back, is what," Julian replied, still frowning at the dark doorway Vesemir and Geralt had disappeared through. "I'm more worried about _why_."

"Probably wants to try to get someone to talk you into behaving," Lambert snorted, and resumed his mending.

"Mmm," Julian hummed softly, still staring into the dark keep, embroidery forgotten in his lap. "Maybe."

* * *

It turned out that the why was more complicated and drastic than Geralt being called back to try to convince Julian to behave.

The day after Geralt got back, during which time he'd been basically unconscious in the baths and then in one of the empty rooms that would be his for now while he was back, Julian was called to Vesemir's office. It was barely more than a glorified closet, and the weaponsmaster didn't use it for much other than extra storage, but as he was involved in organizing the instruction of the trainees and ensuring they have supplies for maintaining the armory, he _did_ need a place to do paperwork from time to time.

Julian found himself glad that he was a bit skinnier - even with his well-developed muscles - than most of the other wolves, because with both Vesemir (thick and wide) and Geralt (filled out like nobody's business over the last few years, and not small to begin with), there was _not_ a lot of remaining space in the tiny office.

"Julian," Vesemir said, sounding an odd mix between exasperated and proud. "You have shown very little ability or willingness when learning from any of your instructors, the past five years."

"It's true, sir, I'm fucking hopeless," Julian said, not even trying to make his feigned sorrow sound believable. There was a tiny choked-off noise that came from the corner of the office Geralt stood in, though his face was schooled into stony impassiveness when Julian stole a look at it. 

" _Julian_ ," Vesemir repeated, his tone sharper. Julian actually ducked his head at that - despite everything, Vesemir had been the only real adult witcher that had ever remotely believed in him, or seen who he really was.

"Sorry, Master Vesemir," he said, abashed.

"As I was saying," Vesemir continued, "I've thought it would possibly be better for you to have more... hands-on learning. Away from Kaer Morhen. Both for the sake of your own training and future safety, and for the sake of your instructors," he added dryly.

Julian _wanted_ to laugh at that, the idea that he was being sent away from Kaer Morhen to train because he was driving his instructors insane, but he got stuck on the fact that he was being _sent away from Kaer Morhen_.

He wasn't sure if this was good or bad. Were they sending him to train with some human out there? To another one of the witcher keeps? Were they just foisting him off on someone else because he'd proved just how useless he was, like that shithole father of his did when— 

"Breathe, Dandelion," Geralt murmured, and there was no doubt Vesemir could hear it, if Julian could, but the familiar voice and the familiar nickname soothed and reminded him who he was. He was a dandelion, growing stubbornly where he wasn't wanted and shouldn't be able to survive, and no matter what happened he would come out on the other side stronger.

"Where am I going, then?" Julian asked, squaring his shoulders. He would survive it, even if it meant leaving Lambert behind. Leaving everything that was frustrating and unwanted but familiar and understandable in his life.

"You're going to be apprenticed to a full witcher on the Path," Vesemir said, crossing his arms. "Someone who can teach you skills that you've been unable to learn under the instructors here."

Julian went cold for a split second, afraid of what that would mean, wondering what witcher they'd send him out with. Not Remus, _please_ not Remus, he was such a _prick_...

But if it was going to be just any witcher, why would Geralt be with them?

Vesemir saw the moment that confused realization washed over the trainee, and he smiled a little for the first time since Julian had walked in. "I made the argument that perhaps you simply needed to understand the weight of what you were being asked to learn. And that a witcher you already were on good terms with, who you'd want to help keep safe and alive, would be the ideal choice."

He turned that gaze on Geralt, nodding in satisfaction with his decision. "And I think Geralt could be a good teacher, if he'd let himself be." Julian could feel more than see the minute straightening of Geralt's spine and squaring of his shoulders. He wanted to make Vesemir proud just as much as Julian did, under all his rebellion and anger, maybe more. 

"Obviously Geralt's not an ideal teacher for working on signs," Vesemir continued, "but it seems likely that Geralt already has plans to meet up with someone who will be a very good instructor for you in that realm."

 _Eskel_. Of course Geralt and Eskel would plan to meet up once or twice over the course of the year. Julian felt himself grinning despite himself. He wasn't really excited about _being_ a witcher or walking the Path, of course, but if he had to do it, he thought he'd rather do it with someone he liked.

But not Lambert.

Lambert, who always looked up to Geralt particularly, even if he'd always showed it in insults and profanity and angry protestations. Who would have a bed to himself for the first time since the Trials. And no Julian to look after. No Julian to look after him.

He'd kick Julian's ass if he knew his friend was panicking over _him_ instead of his own ass, but that's why Julian _had_ to be the one to worry over him. Who the fuck else would, otherwise?

But.

"When do we leave?" Julian asked.

* * *

Geralt got a luxurious week and a half break from the Path, the first he'd had since leaving Kaer Morhen four years before, and the last he'd have until he and Julian came back for the winter.

Julian got a mere week and a half to get kitted out and mentally prepared and to explain to his very best friend and the other half of him what was happening and convince Lambert to not be pissed forever.

* * *

Despite his anger, Lambert didn't kick Julian out of their room.

Despite his jealousy, he triple-checked Julian's pack to make sure he hadn't forgotten to pack something vital.

Despite the truly impressive (and occasionally upsetting) vitriolic crude comments that spilled out of Lambert during the day sometimes, he still tangled himself up with Julian at night and held him too tight. That was always how Julian could tell, after all, that something was really getting to Lambert: he always held Julian just a little too tight for comfort. (Physical comfort meant fuck all when held up against the relief of those clutching hands wrapped just this side of too painfully around him, Lambert's forehead pressed against Julian's arm, or between his shoulder blades, or Julian's own forehead.)

And despite how much Lambert had bitched and moaned and declared himself abandoned in a way that only felt like half of a joke, he walked with Julian that last morning to where Geralt was waiting, and they didn't bother to loosen the entwined, tight-knuckled grip they had on each other's hands, even if Julian knew Lambert would catch shit about it for days, maybe even _weeks_.

He _thought_ Lambert was just seeing them off, until Lambert stalked over to Geralt with a speed that Julian somehow almost couldn't keep up with, despite having all the same mutations.

"Listen up, dickface," Lambert declared, poking a single finger into the man's chest. "You gotta keep this little shit alive, or I'm going to find you and flay your goddamn cock apart."

"Hmm," Geralt said, mostly because he knew it would rile Lambert up a bit, Julian thought, judging by the faintly amused twinkle in his eye.

"Don't you fucking ' _Hmm_ ' at me, you prick!" Lambert shouted, and his voice cracked just a tiny bit at the end. Usually that sort of thing was met with scowls and attempts to throw punches at whoever had inspired enough intensity for Lambert to let his voice crack. Julian winced in anticipation, and even Geralt seemed to be bracing himself slightly.

But Lambert didn't so much as blink. " _Well_?" he demanded. "You gonna fucking _say_ anything?"

Julian didn't bother to stop himself from openly gaping at Lambert, even if Lambert was technically standing in front of him and couldn't _see_ him. Lambert ignored one of the things about himself he found most embarrassing about himself, that he _never_ let happen without throwing some sort of fit if anyone but Julian witnessed it, and not only had Geralt heard it, but basically every other person in the lower courtyard. There weren't _many_ people, admittedly, but word would get around nonetheless. And he didn't seem to _care_ , because he wanted to make Geralt promise not to let Julian die.

Julian thought that if he had Lambert around forever, challenging and surprising and protecting him, he might find himself capable of depths of love no one thought possible, because every time he found himself surprised by Lambert he swore he found the well of the love he had for him was deeper than it had been before.

Geralt, to his credit, simply looked between Lambert's intensely sincere glower and Julian's gobsmacked fondness, and nodded. 

"I'll keep him alive," he rumbled.

" _Swear_ it," Lambert pressed.

"I'll _fucking_ keep him alive," Geralt responded, straight-faced.

Lambert growled so roughly that he could almost give Vesemir a run for his money, despite only being sixteen, and Geralt's lips twitched upward slightly.

"I swear," he said quietly, more sincerely than Julian was used to hearing from either of their older friends. "I swear I'll keep him safe, and bring him back before the pass closes this winter."

It was strange, how Geralt's quiet sincerity reminded Julian of a half-forgotten conversation after the Trials, about loving beautiful things, and the color Julian's eyes had been before the grasses turned them yellow-gold like wildflowers at sunset. It made him feel safe, though. _He_ believed Geralt, even if Lambert wouldn't.

But given that Lambert only nodded shortly and stepped back to sling his free arm around Julian's neck, just this side of too-tight, and pressed their foreheads together, Julian thought that Lambert believed Geralt, too.

"It's just a few months," Julian reassured Lambert.

"And too fucking short a winter, with our piss-poor luck," Lambert grumbled. He twisted his hand into the hair at the nape of Julian's neck, and pulled too hard. Julian didn't grimace or twitch, just held on to Lambert's hand and dug his fingers into Lambert's hip. They stood there for too long, probably, but not by much, and then they were both letting go, shoving at each other and tussling briefly with wide sharp grins until Geralt scruffed them both. 

"We need to get moving," he said firmly. "Come on, Dandelion."

Julian punched Lambert's arm as a final goodbye, and got a punch in return that was strong enough he'd probably have a faint bruise until tomorrow morning, then scooped up his pack, secured it to Roach's saddle along with the things that Geralt had already collected, like his sword and light armor, and they set off, out of the keep and down the trail away from Kaer Morhen.

Just before they turned the last curve out of sight of the walls, Julian looked back, and was relieved to see a familiar lanky, dark-haired figure sitting above the gate, watching them go.


	3. Tag-Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Julian travel the Path, and Julian spends weeks trying to find the right name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not beta'd, so please forgive me for any tense slips, I tried to catch them all but it's DEEPLY hard.

Geralt had no intention of letting Julian off easy just because he _liked_ him.

While there was nothing expected on the way down the pass and the mountain, other than keeping up, once they'd had a full night at the foot of the mountain, Geralt started waking Julian up early so they could practice sword forms together. They started with drills, not doing anything against an opponent, just making sure Julian had good form (and Geralt was _not_ holding back when Julian had bad form, to his surprise, even though he really should've known better). 

Julian was _good_ , he knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt, but Geralt _still_ kicked his ass every morning when they sparred. He wasn't quite so fast, didn't see every tell. It was a challenge like he'd never experienced in training before now, an experience he was rather sure even _Lambert_ , for all his attempts at being more pliable than Julian, had never learned.

Geralt made him practice potions, in a particularly mean (to Julian's sensibilities) way. Julian would be asked to brew a healing potion, and then Geralt would stab him.

Well, that made it sound too rough. Geralt always chose a place that would _need_ healing, but wouldn't kill him quickly. A place where if Julian had fucked up his healing potion, Geralt could still get one of his own and pour it down Julian's throat. A place that would hurt but not incapacitate.

It wasn't pleasant, Julian would admit freely, but it let him experience some of the concoctions he'd rely on in the future, and to try to navigate fear and pain without letting go of things that he needed. And Geralt always went a little easy on him the day after, though Julian knew he'd never admit it. There were things Julian needed to learn, and not all of those things would even have been taught to him in Kaer Morhen, and these were some of them, but that didn't mean Geralt enjoyed hurting him. Julian knew better.

Geralt was teaching him the things he'd wished he hadn't had to learn alone, when he'd first set out. Julian could only really be grateful for that, at the end of the day.

"I think I need a Path name," Julian said one day out of the blue, a few weeks into their travels together.

"Oh?" Geralt asked from where he was re-organizing the kit that held all their potions and bandages and other healing supplies. He did his best to sound disinterested, but Julian could hear the curiosity in it anyway.

"Yes," he said firmly. "You're not _really_ from Rivia, I know that, but you introduce yourself as 'Geralt of Rivia'. At the very least I should choose a place to be _from_ , but it's certainly not where I'm _actually_ from." And after a moment's pause he added, softer but more intense, "And really I never much liked 'Julian', anyhow. That's the name the Pankratzes gave me, and _they're_ certainly not my fucking family."

"Hmm," Geralt said, and didn't elaborate or ask for more of Julian's thoughts for the rest of the day.

The first proper contract that they went on, Geralt killed a pack of drowners that had been terrorizing the travelers coming in and out of the nearby town, and when the alderman shorted Geralt on his payment, Geralt didn't argue, instead dragging an incensed Julian behind him.

"Why don't they ever treat us like we're _worth_ anything?" Julian demanded the moment they were outside the gates, still definitely in earshot of the guards that had stayed to make sure the two witchers didn't return.

"Because we're monsters, and that scares them," Geralt answered, as easy as breath, and there was silence until they'd settled to a camp with banked embers to keep warmth in the little clearing, the two witchers curled together in an attempt to stay warm and comfortable.

"We're not monsters," Julian said the next day, after they'd already woken and started down the road to the next town. "It's not fair they think of us like that, when we save their lives over and over."

"Maybe so," Geralt said. "Doesn't change shit."

And the thing was, Julian _knew_ that. He'd always known that, and known how people would treat him when he was on the Path. But he hadn't really understood what it would be like.

He didn't like it. It wasn't _fair_. There was already so much in his fucking life that wasn't fair that it seemed utterly cruel on the part of the universe to let _this_ happen too. And he could already guess how much this sort of treatment would eat away at Lambert in a few years, if they couldn't find a way to convince people they aren't witchers. Even if, technically, they are.

He tries not to think about how it wears down on him, too, being treated like this. Seeing Geralt treated like this. How much worse it must feel to experience it alone.

"Maybe something harmless sounding," Julian mused a few weeks later while gingerly stitching up a wound on the back of Geralt's shoulder, sustained during a fight with a cockatrice that they had, predictably, been shorted on. Julian had managed - he thought with the force of his baby face alone - to not get them completely thrown out of town, but they're spending the night in a barn and not in the room at the inn that they'd paid for before going out to hunt in the first place.

"What?" Geralt grunted, tried to turn around to look at Julian, prompting the teenager to push him back down.

"Don't move, I'm not _done_ yet," he scolded. "My Path name. If I have something harmless, something that's associated with... with good things, and healing, maybe people will be a little less afraid of me. Of _us_."

Geralt let out a deep sigh. "Maybe," he said, and Julian knew that he meant 'probably not'. "Couldn't hurt, at least."

"Ginger would probably work, but that just makes me think of redheads if the... uh... I've heard..."

"You and Lambert's secret romance novel collection?" Geralt rumbled, sounding faintly amused. 

Julian gasped and smacked Geralt's uninjured shoulder. "You've been gone for _years_ , how do you know about that?"

"At least two of them are ones Eskel found and sent back with Milos," Geralt admitted. "Witchers gossip, Julian. Everybody on the path knows about your attempts to collect erotica."

"Key word being _attempts_ ," Julian grumbled. "It was only ever vague and poetic and heaving bosoms and straining manhood and no real _details_."

"Hmm."

Julian stopped mid-stitch to narrow his eyes at the back of Geralt's head, the smell of Geralt's amusement rising strongly through the pain and blood and ichor.

"...Geralt," Julian asked pointedly, "Are you grown witchers _intentionally_ giving us barely-scandalous romance novels instead of the erotica we've been _trying_ to get our hands on?"

"Hmm," Geralt replied, but Julian could see the slight crinkle in the corner of Geralt's closed eye, nearly hidden behind his shoulder from this angle, that meant he was smiling.

" _GERALT!_ " Julian all but shrieked, and they both knew it weren't for the fact that he didn't want to undo the neat, precise, embroidery-perfected stitches holding Geralt's wound together, he would be tussling with the older witcher in earnest instead of just punching his uninjured shoulder again. "You're _all dead to me_!"

Julian couldn't stay mad, though, when his indignant rage drew out an audible laugh from Geralt; and after the stitches were smeared in salve and bandaged, they fell asleep curled together like pups in the sweet-scented hay.

* * *

"Rosemary."

"Girl's name."

"Doesn't _have_ to be!"

"...It's literally got the name 'Mary' in it."

"And Julian has the name ' _Julia_ ' in it!"

"Hm. Could try that one."

Julian barked a laugh and splashed water at Geralt before returning to scrubbing himself off in the stream near their camp. It wasn't a day for a proper bath, but it had been hot and sweaty all day, and at the very least they both wanted to scrub the sweat and grime of the road off their necks and arms.

"Thyme?" Julian tried.

"Hmm."

"Yeah," he sighed. "That one's a definite no. Valerian?"

"Sounds like a hero from one of your barely-scandalous romance novels."

"I'm still angry about that, by the way."

"Hmm." Geralt didn't turn towards Julian, but Julian could see the hint of a fond smile tugging at Geralt's lips.

Julian had seen Geralt in towns, around people. Seen how tense he always was. The way he didn't visibly flinch, the way Julian did, when someone spat at them, or called them horrible things. The way none of the people being cruel to them ever noticed the tightness in Geralt's jaw, or the way his eyes looked sad whenever someone heard his quiet voice or saw him moving so deliberately non-threateningly and still reeked of fear.

The world made Geralt feel sad and lonely and sometimes even angry. Julian liked being able to make Geralt smile sometimes instead.

"Marigold," Julian tried later, when they were eating supper.

"Slept with a whore named Marigold last year," Geralt said thoughtfully.

"Is that an attempt to discourage me from using it?" Julian asked curiously. He wasn't particularly attached to it as a possible name, but it seemed odd for Geralt to use 'that's a prostitute's name' as a discouragement.

Geralt shook his head. "No. Just was reminded. She was... nice."

Julian snorted, and Geralt scowled at him. It was not particularly effective, considering Julian had seen Geralt level that scowl on Eskel plenty of times when he was little. 

"I mean, you did pay her to be, I'd think," Julian pointed out.

"Oh. Well, yes," Geralt accepted, the scowl melting a little. "But no, just. Usually they want me out as soon as I've finished," he said with a shrug. "She didn't. Smiled at me when I left."

Julian's shoulders dropped, and he frowned down at the remains of his rabbit stew. A prostitute smiling at Geralt and not kicking him out of the room immediately was enough for her to stay in Geralt's memory. That probably said more about the treatment Geralt had received on the Path than the last few weeks of Julian's first-hand experience could even speak to.

It wasn't fair. They were _helping_ people. _Protecting_ them. Why did people hate them so much for that?

"Uh," Geralt said after a moment, clearing his throat. "Maybe Chasteberry?"

Julian looked up at Geralt with a frown, took in the half-smile and the glint of mischief in his eyes, and accepted the offered distraction from the weight of his growing knowledge of the world with a melodramatic scowl.

" _Not_ funny," he declared. "You're a cruel and uncaring mentor, and a _beast_ of a brother, and I absolutely despise you!"

And then he yelped and had to scramble to put his stew down before Geralt got him in a headlock to show him exactly how beastly of a brother he was.

* * *

"Chestnut," Geralt offered as he lunged, sending Julian skittering backward, trying to keep his feet _and_ his sword.

"Makes me sound far too edible," he said, panting a little. But only a little. It was just, they'd been at this for half an hour, and Geralt was - as far as Julian could tell - putting everything he had into it. And he was still a _lot_ more skilled than Julian was.

And he kept distracting him by talking, which was _Julian's_ tactic and he didn't appreciate it being used against him.

"Sage."

"Too— _fuck_!" Julian barely managed to parry, and tried to move so he could get off defense and press his own attack. "Too _old_. Couldn't pull it off, I am not sage and wise."

"True," Geralt agreed, and suddenly closed the distance between them with a move that managed to leave Julian on his back and his sword out of his hand. "You keep forgetting to watch your distance. You're faster than me, _use_ that." He offered a hand to Julian and pulled him to his feet. "Again."

Julian groaned, but dutifully retrieved his sword and stood at the ready again.

"Juniper," Geralt offered, circling and waiting for Julian to attack first. 

Julian blinked, momentarily distracted. "That one's actually not bad, I'll keep it in the running," he said, then had to yelp and scramble to focus again as Geralt took advantage of that distraction to attack. 

"Unfair!" he protested, parrying and pointedly putting a few feet of distance between them as quick as he could.

Geralt shrugged and grinned at him, not looking away or dropping his guard for a moment, the bastard. "Most fights aren't. And no monsters are."

"Asshole," Julian grumbled, but rolled his shoulders and darted back into Geralt's space, trying to get just _one_ good hit on him. Just one.

He ended up on the ground again within five minutes, but he'd at least made Geralt _work_ for it.

* * *

Julian had not cried when the alderman spat in his face and sneeringly called him a mutant freak whose mother had been right to abandon, in response to his protest at Geralt being underpaid for saving the town from a Bruxa just before midsummer.

But by the time they found a spot to camp a ways out of town, down the road to the next, his tears were coming hot and fast. He'd been called both a mutant and a freak before, but he'd never been so humiliated as he was when he had a man's spittle slowly dripping down his cheek.

And he hadn't thought of how he came to be a witcher trainee in so many years. The memory of being shoved at a witcher as payment - not through law of surprise but his father's own _greed_ \- was still as sharp and wounding as it had been when he was small, apparently. Maybe even more than it had been then, when he hadn't understood fully, even when it was laid out plain for him. He'd thought, at six, that he'd done something wrong. That his father had no other choice. That the only option was to give him to the witcher as compensation.

He knew now, at nearly seventeen, that none of that was true. Maybe for some people, from time to time, but not for _his_ father.

"It's not worth starting fights," Geralt said quietly as Julian stalked around the little clearing, violently throwing down bedrolls and kindling, pretending he didn't have tears streaking down his cheeks.

"Why _not_?" Julian snapped, whirling on Geralt. "Because it's true? So fucking _what_? We still help them. We still _protect_ them. They don't _deserve_ it! _We_ deserve some fucking _respect_ , for everything we fucking do, for everything we fucking _go through_ to be able to kill monsters they have no chance against!"

Geralt sighed, and looked off into the distance. "We're mutants," he said eventually. "We were all abandoned for one reason or another. That's enough to make most people nervous."

" _I_ wasn't fucking _abandoned_ ," Julian snarled through gritted teeth. "I wish I bloody well _was_. I was fucking _sold_ , because the fucking Earl de Lettenhove was too goddamn _greedy_ to pay full price for a witcher clearing a kikimore nest and thought paying half the promised coin and his useless youngest fucking _son_ was fair compensation!"

He turned away quickly, fists balled up at his sides, but not fast enough to miss the look of shock that flickered across Geralt's face.

Julian knew he would never be good enough. He hadn't been good enough for his family, he wasn't good enough for the witchers of Kaer Morhen, he wasn't good enough for the people out in the world. He was useless and unwanted, and he'd just been _painfully_ reminded of that in front of one of the very few people he actually wanted to think well of him.

"...Is that really what happened?" Geralt asked, his voice low and gravelly in a way that Julian can't decipher without looking at his face.

He huffed softly, and looked down at the ground. "Yeah," he said, fighting against the wobble in his voice. "My father thought the kikimores would kill the witcher he'd hired and his soldiers could go in after and finish the job. But they didn't kill the witcher, and _Father_ hadn't bothered to make sure he had enough coin on hand to fulfill the promised amount. So he offered me."

Geralt let out a deep breath, and Julian tensed, waiting for... he didn't even know what. Some kind of scolding, or admonition, telling him that he was overreacting.

"Fuck," Geralt said instead, sounding pained, like he did when he'd been injured and was trying not to show it. " _Fuck_ , Dandelion, I didn't... we didn't know."

Julian frowned at the ground for a moment, then cautiously looked up.

Geralt looked torn between anguish and rage, and Julian didn't know what to do with that.

"I... what?" he asked uncertainly.

"You... Most of us were... child surprises," Geralt said slowly. "Or else we were children our parents couldn't afford to care for. Children that didn't have any other options."

Children who would've been left to die otherwise. Children who weren't the sons of noblemen who weren't bastards and were in no dire fucking straights.

"Yeah, well, not all of us," Julian said faintly, and his nails dug into his palms as he tightened his fists.

He expected nothing. At the most he expected to be left alone to grapple with the unfairness and pain that surround... _everything_ about being a witcher, for him.

Instead, he felt Geralt's arms wrap around him, turning him so his face was pressed into Geralt's chest.

"We didn't know," Geralt repeated, so quiet that Julian thought maybe he didn't even hear the words, only felt the rumble of that familiar deep voice in his bones. "Fuck. No wonder you're such a contrary shit."

Julian laughed, even as the tears welled back up in his eyes, his forehead pressed against Geralt's shoulder.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm fucking _nobility_. Gotta yank your chain a bit. It's genetic."

It was meant to be a joke. Geralt didn't laugh.

"I'm sorry they did that to you," he said. "But you've got family now. Right?"

Julian thought about Geralt holding him here, his voice rough with emotions that Julian couldn't even quite identify, that didn't make any sense. He thought about Eskel and the teasing way he always prodded at Julian and Lambert, the knowledge that two of their tamest romance novels were from him, to mock them and engage with them even while he was gone. He thought about Lambert and the desperate, determined loyalty that he didn't feel like he deserved but felt certain he'd never lose. Of Vesemir's faith in him, of Milos handing off novels to him at the end of autumn when he returned to the keep, even of Iolus and his lack of faith in Julian but his desire to spare the boy he'd been any more pain than necessary.

He did have a family. An imperfect, fucked up, unappreciated family who, even if they didn't like him or hold him in high regard still treated him better than his own goddamn father did.

Julian felt a sob tear out of his throat against his will, and then another, and then it was like he was eleven years old again, coming out of the Trials, sobbing and aching and lost, and just like when he'd woken from the Trials, Geralt was here, holding him together, helping him wake up again.

He cried for an hour, he thought, before he all but passed out from exhaustion and strain. He didn't dream, he wasn't even really aware that he'd fallen asleep, but he blinked and opened his eyes and it was suddenly dark, the night having sunk down around them, and there was a fire with some sort of bird cooking over it, and Geralt sitting within arm's reach of him.

He only ever really felt safe, he realized suddenly, when Geralt or Lambert or Eskel was with him.

"Dandelion," he croaked, and Geralt looked over at him curiously.

"You're awake," he rumbled softly. "What about dandelions?"

"I'm a dandelion," he said. "People think I'm pretty and harmless and useless. But I'm a stubborn fucker. So maybe that's my name."

Geralt huffed a laugh, and ran a hand through Julian's— _Dandelion's_ hair.

"Yeah," he agreed. "You're a stubborn fucker for sure."

Dandelion let out a deep sigh of exhausted contentment, and fell asleep again. He slept through supper and straight through to the morning, but it was okay.

He knew who he was, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the momentary focus on the possibility of Juniper as a name was a reference to the LOVELY [Juniper Berries](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22826725) by WingedQuill, because it's a fucking amazing fic and y'all should read it!
> 
> Milos is as ever the creation of the lovely Fayet from [Hibernating With Ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23119000/). He's not dead for once! Still off-screen though. Maybe one day, Milos.


	4. Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to Soft Boys Make A Family, I hope you'll forgive the gap between updates and enjoy this new chapter!

Geralt had turned, inexplicably, towards White Bridge just after midsummer. It took Dandelion a week to realize they were headed straight for the city rather than for the nearest contract, when he heard a rumor that a town a day's journey back up the river had a drowner problem.

"Hmm," Geralt said when he brought it up. "We'll come look into it in a few days."

"Why not now?" Dandelion asked, tipping his head curiously at the older wolf.

"Headed to White Bridge. Have a contact to meet up with."

Geralt continued to eat his breakfast, but Dandelion could smell a hint of... something bright - amusement, probably - rising off of him. The same scent that would rise off him any time he was taking the piss and Dandelion hadn't yet caught on.

Dandelion scowled over his porridge at Geralt, but the older wolf didn't seem to be at all bothered by the expression, even if a nearby patron who noticed the look tried to subtly inch away from their table.

"You're up to something," Dandelion declared.

"Hmm," Geralt responded. "Finish up, I'll get Roach ready." He ruffled Dandelion's hair as he passed, snagging both their packs from under the table as he went. 

Dandelion huffed, trying to blow his fringe out of his eyes, and quickly finished his porridge while muttering under his breath about jackasses who think they're _so_ funny and won't get one over on _him_ , no sir.

By the time he was done and returned their dishes to the kitchen, he'd mostly burned through his irritation and had settled into curiosity.

Whatever they were doing was bound to be interesting, if Geralt was willing to pass up a job for it. And anyway, with any luck, White Bridge would have a shop that sold the sorts of _lurid romances_ that Dandelion planned to bring back to Lambert come winter.

* * *

The tavern wasn't crowded, but Dandelion still hated having his back to most of the room. It wasn't really anything he could fix without complaining to Geralt, though, as his "mentor" had tucked himself in a table with his back to the wall and no space for Dandelion to sit with a view of the room.

"Stop fidgeting," Geralt rumbled as Dandelion shifted in his seat again and glanced over his shoulder. "You'll make folks nervous."

"Well maybe _I'm_ nervous," Dandelion muttered and stabbed at the salted ham on his plate. "Did you have to pick _this_ table?" he said, and definitely didn't _whine_ , even though he could hear that pitch in his voice. "My back's open, it makes me nervous."

He jumped as the door opened again, but only half turned before focusing on his plate again. Geralt could see whoever came in. He didn't have to worry about it. He just didn't _like_ it.

"Don't trust me to watch it for you?" Geralt asked, one eyebrow quirked.

"Of course I do!" Dandelion protested. "It's just—" he cut himself off with a frown, catching a scent that was familiar but that he couldn't quite place before—

Arms wrapped around his chest and dragged him out of his chair, and Dandelion shouted in surprise and tried in vain to struggle out of the grip the stranger had on him. He was about to throw his head back to (hopefully) break the nose of whoever had grabbed him when he noticed two things:

First, the grip on him was stronger than any human could've possibly had.

And second, Geralt was still seated, and was in fact _grinning_ at whoever was behind him.

"You done fighting, pup?" a familiar voice growled in his ear, and the familiar scent suddenly clicked into place as a wide smile bloomed across Dandelion's face.

"Eskel!" he crowed, and turned his struggle to escape into a squirming to turn around in Eskel's greatly-loosened grasp so that he could hug him. "What are you _doing_ here?"

Eskel laughed, and tugged Dandelion off so that he could hold him at arms' length to give him a look-over. "I'm here to meet Geralt, and apparently you as well," he said. "Look at you, Dandelion! Growing fast as the weed you are, huh? What're you doing here, they start graduating you pups early?"

"Oh, they gave up on me and decided to make Geralt teach me instead," Dandelion said with a smug little grin. 

Geralt finally stood with a roll of his eyes, and stepped around the table so he could tug Eskel into a hug of his own. Dandelion's chest tightened at the way he could see their hands fist in shirts, around armor straps, an embrace that lasted just a little bit too long for a brotherly reunion, their grip a little too tight.

It made him miss Lambert so much he felt like he couldn't breathe.

"It's why Vesemir sent me that letter back in the fall," Geralt said as they sat down again, Eskel sitting just close enough to Geralt that Dandelion could tell their knees were pressed together under the table. "Some of the other instructors were talking about not letting him make full witcher, keeping him in the keep indefinitely since he wasn't progressing in any of his lessons."

"And Vesemir's solution was... what, for you to smuggle him out?" Eskel asked, waving to get the barmaid's attention across the room to gesture for food and drink. Dandelion tucked into his salted pork and boiled potatoes so that Geralt and Eskel could catch up a bit - he knew Geralt hadn't seen Eskel since midwinter, and they must've planned this meetup since then.

"Alternative training," Geralt clarified. "Send him out with a witcher he likes and trusts, get one-on-one, in the field training, see if he improves any better than he had with the instructors."

"I get the feeling that he hasn't needed much improvement," Eskel said, shooting a knowing grin at Dandelion. "Well, that's better than being caged for the rest of time, for sure."

"Hmm," Geralt agreed. "Vesemir said you should help him with signs."

"Did he now?" Eskel sounded amused as his food and a mug of ale were brought over. "Sounds to me like you're trying to offload him 'cause you can't handle the pressure."

"You want him learning from _me_?" Geralt countered, one eyebrow raised. Having had weeks to watch Geralt in action, Dandelion had to agree that while Geralt was one of the best swordsmen he'd ever seen, except probably Vesemir, he wasn't exactly a prodigy with signs.

Eskel, on the other hand, was widely acknowledged even before he'd left on the Path to be the best of the wolves with their magic. So if Eskel was around, it would make _much_ more sense for Eskel to help him with his signs than Geralt, who used them as a lot more of a blunt instrument than a versatile tool, and Dandelion knew his own signs could be _so much better_ with the right instruction and no need to practice in secret away from his instructor.

"No, I suppose not," Eskel agreed. "He'd probably end up blowing himself up trying to cast a proper Igni if I left him to you."

"Hey!" Dandelion protested. "I can already do a damn good Igni, thanks! It's not like I'm _actually_ as bad as they think I am!"

Eskel laughed and reached out to ruffle his hair.

"If you say so, Dandelion," he allowed. "Now tell me what you and Geralt have been up to."

* * *

They decided to split up for a month and reconvene after in a nearby town upriver, Dandelion going with Eskel on the south bank of the river and Geralt staying on the north bank. Eskel was easier on Dandelion when it came to potions, only drilling him on components and effects and degrees of toxicity instead of actually making him make or _take_ anything. Swordplay was about the same, training in the mornings and evenings, Eskel didn't go easy on him but he didn't push Dandelion to the point of collapse, either. Their training was lighter, in fact, because of the time and energy they put into his training with signs.

Dandelion knew from the beginning he would never be quite as good as Eskel at signs. Eskel could've been a sorcerer, if he hadn't been given to the witchers, after all. But Eskel was very firm about how skilled Dandelion was for having not had any real direct training.

"Your control is good," he said one evening about halfway through their month together. "Better than I expected, actually."

"Really?" Dandelion asked, looking up from the shirt he was embroidering. He'd interspersed violets and the sigils connected to the signs, with the odd honeybee here and there, along the edges of the collar. Dandelion was _determined_ to finish it before Eskel parted ways with him and Geralt, so Eskel could have it to wear when he was off alone again.

"Power tends to be the easier half of learning a sign, though not everyone has the _ability_ to power them beyond a certain point," Eskel explained, mending the worn shirt that Dandelion was hoping to replace with his embroidered one. "Control is... difficult, for most people. Having the control to not use your full strength is the starting point for control, and you're honestly better at controlling your output than you are at just letting loose."

"I had to be careful," Dandelion pointed out. "It was just me and Lambert, way out in the back of the keep."

"And that's actually gotten you further ahead than you'd be otherwise, I think," Eskel said. "This winter we'll work on uncommon uses of the signs you're familiar with, things not everyone can do."

"Like your mid-air Yrden?" Dandelion asked eagerly, his embroidery forgotten for the moment. He'd seen Eskel use that to slow the fall of a fleder that tried to get the drop on him, last week, and it was _amazing_.

"Like that, yeah," Eskel agreed with a laugh. "We'll practice with Lambert chucking snowballs at you. If you're still progressing, we'll start you on Axii next summer."

" _Summer_?" he asked uncertainly. What if he messed it up? What if he put Eskel under and wasn't able to get him out before they got in trouble? What if— 

"You wouldn't be the one casting it," Eskel assured him, and Dandelion relaxed and resumed his embroidery with a relieved sigh. "The first step is learning to resist it when it's used on you. It helps you learn to resist other sorts of control, as well, so it's a good skill to have. I won't have you cast it until we're back at the keep."

"Okay," Dandelion agreed. "That's a little less terrifying." He fiddled with his needle, then looked back up at Eskel's face. "Is it bad that I hope I'm bad at it? Or... casting it, at least?"

"I don't think that's at all bad," Eskel reassured him with a faint smile. "You don't want to be able to take over someone's mind. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Mmm," Jaskier hummed thoughtfully, and tied off his thread. "I suppose. It feels like I'm hoping I'll actually fail, though, not like I'm doing anything good."

"I know you don't want to fail," Eskel reassured, stretching his arms over his head with a grunt. "You may not want to be a witcher, but you want to learn as many skills as we can teach you, right?"

"I want to show up all the fuckers who said I was a failure, more like," Dandelion muttered.

"Whichever one gets you everything you'll need to stay alive out there," Eskel said firmly. "Now, we're up early tomorrow so we can make it to the next town by midday, you should sleep."

"Yes, _mother_ ," Dandelion replied with a grin, and laughed when Eskel threw a blanket at his head.

* * *

It was a bittersweet relief to cross the river a month after White Bridge. 

"Geralt!" Dandelion called, waving enthusiastically at the white-haired witcher standing with his horse in the inn yard. He heard Eskel's soft chuckle behind him, but gave it no attention as he jogged ahead to reach Geralt quicker. He restrained himself from throwing his arms around Geralt in a hug only because there were people watching, and it had only been a month since they saw each other last.

His enthusiasm still got a few concerned and dubious looks, as the townsfolk appeared to try to decide if he was in trouble or not. Well, if they tried to ask him, they'd see his eyes and back off, now wouldn't they?

"Miss me, Dandelion?" Geralt asked, his eyes crinkling slightly in amusement.

" _Immensely_ ," Dandelion responded. "But it was good to see Eskel again. He said my signs are coming along very well, by the way."

"I hope he didn't let your sword work suffer for it," Geralt commented, shooting a faint smile over Dandelion's head to Eskel leading his own horse into the yard.

"As if I would ever!" Eskel protested. "Anyway, even if I didn't push him much, it was only a month, I'm sure you'll have him whipped back into shape in no time."

Geralt gave Dandelion his coin purse and sent him into the tavern across the way to secure supper for the three of them, which he did gladly.

"Three of your heartiest meals, two mugs of ale, and a cider if you please," he asked of the tavern keeper behind the bar. The man eyed him suspiciously and named a price that Dandelion was rather sure was higher than he was charging everyone else, but he paid anyway and found a table in a dark corner, the way Geralt and Eskel both preferred, to wait for both the meals and the witchers.

He wasn't expecting one of the men sitting in the tavern to, after a hushed conversation that even Dandelion's ears couldn't make out over the noise around him, stand and make his way back to the corner.

"Lad," the man said. "You came with them witchers, aye?"

"Yes," Dandelion said, cautiously. "What of it?"

"There's no call for you to feel trapped with 'em," the man said quietly. "We've a fair good community here. Could find a place for you to apprentice, should you stay behind."

 _Oh_. Dandelion sucked in a soft breath of realization - the man was trying to _save him_ from Geralt and Eskel.

"I... I think you've misunderstood the situation, sir," he said, equally quietly.

"I know the rumors of how they make their kind," the man says. "Take good lads back to their fortress and use foul magics on 'em. Sounds a hard life, being tortured and mutated like those freaks."

"I'm..." Dandelion glanced to the door, hoping to see one of his brothers coming in so they could save him from this conversation.

"Come, we can sneak you out the back, if you're scared they'll do aught to stop you."

"Sir, I deeply appreciate the care you're showing me, honest," Dandelion started, pleadingly. "But you misunderstand. I'm not being taken back to be magicked, I'm a witcher. My brothers are looking after me this season."

The man pulled back slightly, searching Dandelion's face, and Dandelion forced his pupils to contract so his cat-eyed gaze was clearer to make out in the dim light of the tavern.

"Ah," the man said, suddenly uncomfortable, and Dandelion attempted a small smile, hoping it wouldn't scare the man off.

"It was... very kind of you, though," he said after a couple of seconds. "To try to help a boy you thought was in trouble."

"You really as young as you look?" the man asked sharply

"Uh," Dandelion hesitated, not really sure how young he _did_ look, really, and the man appeared to take that pause as confirmation.

"Fuckin' animals," the man muttered, and turned with a dark scowl to head back to his friends, their conversation starting up again in earnest. Dandelion tried to pick out what he could, but it was just _this_ side of too soft in the loud room.

Geralt came in just then, doing his best to not draw attention, and failing - especially when the table of the man and his friends all fell silent to glower at him as he passed.

Geralt didn't actually turn to frown at the men in confusion, but he raised an eyebrow at Dandelion when he slipped into a seat at the corner table.

"Everything all right?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah," Dandelion murmured back. "They just... they thought I was in trouble and needed help. Didn't seem to like it much when they realized I was a witcher, too."

Geralt pursed his lips and looked like he was considering getting up and saying something to the men, but the food and drinks arrived then, the serving girl putting it all down as quickly as she could before fleeing back to the kitchen. 

Eskel slid into the chair next to Geralt with a raised eyebrow.

"Okay, so there's a table of men glaring at me, and Geralt looks like someone insulted his horse. What happened?"

"They were going to rescue Dandelion from the big bad witchers," Geralt sighed, eating the food in front of him more mechanically than by any apparent desire to eat it. "Maybe we should've camped tonight. Three witchers in one town's gonna make everyone nervous."

"Kid deserves a bed," Eskel said. "Town can deal, it's one night."

"We don't have to stay," Dandelion protested. "If you think there'll be trouble..."

Geralt pressed his lips together, then stood up, walking over to the table of men, Dandelion desperately hissing his name to try to get him to come back.

He pulled over a chair and sat at the table with the men, who looked torn between sneering and fleeing. The entire tavern fell quiet, and Jaskier didn't have to strain to try to hear Geralt speaking to them.

"Dandelion said you offered to help him escape us," he said, and the men looked nervously between themselves. The man who'd spoken to Dandelion squared his shoulders, even though the scent of fear was quickly filling the tavern.

"Aye, we did," he said. "Thought he was being press-ganged into joining your army of mutants. Didn't realize it was too late."

Geralt nodded slowly. "That's very decent of you," he said, which seemed to confuse the men. "If he hadn't already been made a witcher, I would've let him stay. Place like this would be a decent place for my little brother to grow up."

This confused them further, and they exchanged frowns before their apparent leader spoke again.

"Well... good. Shouldn't be takin' lads away from their families just for makin' more of your sort."

"Um," Dandelion spoke up across the room, and grimaced when everyone's eyes turned to him. "Uh, sorry, just... they didn't take me. The witchers, I mean. My father hired one and promised more than he could afford. So he offered me instead of the rest of the money. It... It wasn't their fault I ended up a witcher, it was my father's."

The men fell silent as Dandelion wilted a bit under their stares.

Geralt stood back up with an attempt at a grateful smile, though it seemed that the smile came across much more like a grimace judging by the reactions of the men.

"Thank you for caring about my brother," he said quietly. "There should be more people like you in the world.

He walked back to Dandelion and Eskel and slipped back into his seat, sitting and tucking into his food again.

"You didn't have to do that," Dandelion whispered. "They could've attacked you. They could've tried to drive us out of town."

"I don't want anyone to think that you're here unwillingly," Geralt said. "Even if you don't want to be a witcher, you like being around me." Something faltered in his expression, and he glanced up to Dandelion across the table, searching his face.

It nearly broke his heart, seeing Geralt look so uncertain and worried that he didn't want to be his friend or his brother.

"Dumbass," Dandelion grumbled. "Of course I like being around you. It's one of the upsides of being a witcher in the first place."

Eskel laughed and leaned over to ruffle Dandelion's hair, and Geralt's tense expression relaxed, and Dandelion launched into an accounting of his and Eskel's month apart from Geralt with enough gusto that even the men across the tavern who'd been watching them uncertainly seemed to relax.

It wasn't perfect, but it was as close as a trio of witchers could hope to get.

* * *

"You're coming back this winter, right?" Dandelion asked as he trotted between Geralt and Eskel on their way to the crossroads where Eskel would go back to his usual Path.

"Of course, little one," Eskel said. "At this point I feel like I couldn't possibly avoid it, because you'd take it out on me next summer."

"I would," Dandelion grumbled. Geralt snorted, but when Dandelion turned to glare at him, his face was schooled into calm seriousness. "I would!" he insisted. "I'd kick Eskel's ass, you just watch!"

"How about this," Eskel allows. " _If_ I don't return for the winter, I'll let you practice your Aards on me without Quen when I see you again. Otherwise, you're more than welcome to spar against me during the winter, and I'll owe you and Lambert a _properly_ smutty novel if you can beat me. Deal?"

Dandelion narrowed his eyes, then nodded shortly. "Deal."

Geralt tugged Eskel into a hug, and Dandelion turned away to give them a bit of privacy and also pull out his gift for Eskel. He gave them a moment, listening intently to the distant sounds of the forest so he could tune out their murmuring to each other as best he could. He didn't turn back until he felt Eskel's hand on his shoulder, and he turned around to wrap his arms tightly around Eskel's waist, embroidered shirt clutched tightly in one hand.

"Hey, Dandelion, no need to worry," Eskel said, squeezing the back of his neck half as if he meant to scruff him. "I made it this far, right? And if I don't come back for the winter, you'll kick my ass. I very much want to avoid that."

"Yeah, you'd better," Dandelion mumbled, trying not to let tears well up in his eyes. He held onto Eskel long enough that he got his urge to cry under control, then pulled back and shoved the shirt at him.

"What—" Eskel started, taking it and letting it unfold. It had taken a lot of effort, and Eskel'd watched him do it, but the violets and glyphs traced their way along the neckline and sleeve cuffs of the shirt, lovingly completed but positioned to mostly be hidden by armor.

"Your shirt's coming apart," Dandelion said. "And this way you'll remember that people are waiting for you. So that you'll come back."

"I wouldn't forget," Eskel said quietly, smiling down at the embroidery and running his fingertips delicately along one of the glyphs. "But I wouldn't turn down such a lovely reminder for all the world."

Dandelion was pretty sure that he imagined Eskel's eyes looking a bit watery, but he definitely didn't imagine the wide smile on his face, and Dandelion felt proud of having been the cause of that smile.

Eskel carefully tucked the embroidered shirt into his bag, then let out a deep breath. "Well. Until next time, Wolf. See ya, Dandelion."

"Good luck, Eskel," Geralt replied with a nod, and both turned to go down their respective paths.

"See you this winter!" Dandelion called, waving.

Eskel laughed and waved over his shoulder, and Dandelion watched until the road curved around a copse of trees and took him out of sight.

* * *

"Do you think he'll like this pattern?" Dandelion asked Geralt the night before they started the climb up to Kaer Morhen.

"You've asked me that five times in the last two days," Geralt grunted, without looking at the embroidery Dandelion was shoving at his face. "You're the one who shares a room with him, I'm pretty sure you have a better idea than me what he likes."

"I guess," Dandelion sighed, peering down at the somewhat abstract woven ivy design he'd been working on for Lambert since they'd parted ways with Eskel. It was intricate and covered a larger portion of the shirt than his embroidery usually did, but it looked nice and he hoped very dearly that Lambert would think so too. That he would understand that it was meant to show how much Dandelion had been thinking about him while they were separated.

"Dandelion, he'll like it," Geralt said with a fond sigh. " _You_ embroidered it. He'll like it."

"You think?" Dandelion chewed his lip and examined it. He'd finished, he thought, but it didn't feel complete, and he didn't want to give it to Lambert _unfinished_.

"Yeah," Geralt says. "You two've been inseparable since he arrived at Kaer Morhen, and you were gone nearly three seasons. He'd be glad for anything you brought back, like those smutty novels I'm pretending you didn't stash in my pack."

Dandelion grinned unrepentantly at Geralt, then frowned back down at the shirt. It was a lovely design, if he said so himself, but _maybe_... He pulled his sewing kit back out, and some yellow embroidery thread, and set about adding to the shirt.

He finished just in time for Geralt to insist he needed to sleep, and he proudly surveyed the additions. A small cluster of dandelions over the heart, and a single dandelion bloom on the sleeve cuff where it would be easy to curl fingers over to rub for comfort.

Dandelion fell asleep confident that Lambert would like the design, now that he'd worked himself into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to the BLiKM and WJ discords for having word sprints which helped jostle me out of my rut with this chapter ♥

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always and forever appreciated. Come yell about these boys with me on tumblr over at [@bygodstillam](http://bygodstillam.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I'll be with you all along](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26387182) by [ruffboi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffboi/pseuds/ruffboi)




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